


Terminal

by starknight



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Death, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) is Sick, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Fluff, Gen, Good Parent Hank Anderson, Hank Anderson & Connor Friendship, Have I warned you enough yet?, It's going to be really sad okay, POV Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Protective Parent Hank Anderson, Sad Ending, Terminal Illnesses, Upgraded Connor | RK900 Has a Different Name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-09-29 11:31:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17202665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starknight/pseuds/starknight
Summary: It’s been a month since the revolution. Androids can work, own property, and not be in fear of being attacked while outside. Connor is happy, living in Hank's spare room, and surrounded by the people he loves. He's working at the DPD, and in time, he'll be qualified as a real detective.All in all, this is the best ending anyone could have hoped for.Until it isn't.





	1. Yesterday

**Author's Note:**

> And so it begins.
> 
> ~~ beta'd by the lovely Spartaness ~~

All in all, this is the best ending anyone could have hoped for. It’s been a month since the revolution. Jericho has been working with Connor often assisting their negotiations, frantically to push through new laws and rights for androids. It’s gotten to the point where androids can work, own property, and not be in fear of being attacked while outside. 

Mostly.

Connor’s back working with the DPD, though he isn’t partnering with Hank. It was decided that all androids would have to go through the ‘proper channels’ of education and experience. So here Connor is, handing out parking tickets and breaking up pub fights.

The work is trivial, but he still enjoys it.

His life has been vivid and overwhelming since the instant he deviated. He’s found that it’s fine to wait for a little while. It’s fine to have nights in with Hank, watching old movies. It’s fine that he needs to break down and cry from time to time. He has Hank to look after him now. Connor isn’t yet living his life to the fullest, but that’s okay.

If he has anything, it’s time.

A new model isn’t exactly what Connor had been expecting when Kamski called him to visit. The RK900 stands perfectly still, grey-blue eyes the only betrayal of movement, constantly scanning. He is built both wider and taller than Connor. 

Kamski smiles at Connor, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “What do you think of the new model?”

Connor frowns. Kamski speaks as if the android wasn’t a person, but Connor knows better. He steps forward to the RK900 and offers his hand.

“Hello. My name is Connor.”

The RK900’s eyes lock onto his, and a hand that is much larger than his shakes Connor’s. “Good morning, Connor. I am RK900.”

Connor sees Kamski’s fingers twitch in his peripheral vision. “I’m very glad to meet you, RK900. Welcome to the world. I hope it is to your satisfaction.”

RK900 just raises his eyebrows slightly. “As do I.”

A slightly awkward pause ensues. Connor can’t help but wonder what the intended primary function of the RK900 was before the revolution. It shouldn’t matter now, but he can’t help his curiosity.

“RK900 was designed as a replacement for you,” Kamski says in his smooth, deep tone. “He was going to be more combat-oriented, however.”

The meaning of that hangs in the air.  _ Combat-oriented, my ass, _ Hank would say if he were here. RK900 had been designed as a weapon of war. 

“I see,” is all Connor says.

“I want to work with the police,” RK900 informs him. “I wish to be useful. However, I do not have any resources or experience.” 

Connor’s thirium pump swells a little in sympathy. He remembers what it was like, before Hank, before the DPD. It was nothingness, and it was solitude. He would never make RK900 go through that.

“Would you like to accompany me to the station?” he asks. “You can apply there for a job. I will also find you some accommodation. You have nothing to worry about.” Connor smiles at RK900. “I’ll take care of you.”

RK900’s eyelids flicker and his LED turns yellow. “I do not require- I- thank you, Connor. I appreciate it.”

Connor nods and leads RK900 out of CyberLife, not bothering to look back at Kamski as they depart. He is well aware that he has just either passed or failed another one of the man’s moral tests, and that he is probably now following some sort of very complicated plan. He doesn’t really care, to be honest. His mission is now to look after RK900, and that’s exactly what he is going to do.

 

RK900 is hired within ten minutes of arriving at the DPD. Fowler looks at the android, looks at Connor’s winning smile, and nods, waving his hand absently. Connor smiles more and pats RK900 on the back. They interface briefly, and just like that, RK900 is ready for his first shift.

 

“A typical hiring session involves a curriculum vitae, a cover letter, qualifications, and a job interview,” RK900 says to Connor. They are on public patrol duty together, both in standard issue cop uniforms. They walk the streets slowly, keeping their senses open for any disturbances. 

Connor hums in agreement. “You’re not a typical employee, and the times are changing since CyberLife updated your hiring protocols,” he says gently. “I have learnt more than I ever knew existed in the last month. I feel certain you will experience the same.”

RK900 is silent for a little while. Connor fixes a broken vending machine in a few moments. They continue walking.

“Do you still speak with Amanda?”

Connor isn’t expecting that question, though perhaps he should be. “She still holds a presence in my mind, though I am free to enter and leave her garden as I please. I have only had one conversation with her voluntarily.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Perhaps ‘conversation’ was the wrong word,” admits Connor. “She went on a tirade at me, and I… I struggled with it.” It is hard for him to think about even now. “I came far closer to self destruction than I ever intended. Hank brought me back.”

RK900 doesn’t say anything for a moment. Connor uses the calming mental techniques that Markus taught him. He doesn’t want to be compromised on duty. That’s why he doesn’t notice when RK900 stops walking.

“RK900?” he calls back. “Is everything okay?” The android’s face is screwed up. His LED flickers from yellow to red, back and forth, back and forth.

“I- I- sorry,” RK900 says, his eyes settling for a moment on Connor.

He bolts.

Connor gives chase, but RK900 is the superior model. He doesn’t stand a chance. He stops and stares at the retreating police uniform, wondering what exactly prompted the android to flee. RK900 has Jericho’s contact details so he doesn’t give chase. It’s only his first day of living, after all. He lets Fowler know that the new employee may be missing for a while, finishes his patrol with no notable incidents, and goes to Jericho.

 

He arrives in the late afternoon, greeting Jerry with a wave and heading straight for Markus’ office. The leader of the revolution is sitting there with a dopey look on his face, gazing at the picture of Simon on his wall. 

You’d think he’d have noticed the door opening. Markus had been doting on Simon for as long as he’d been a part of Jericho, and vice versa. In total oblivious fashion. Connor, Josh, and North had been forced to endure.

Connor withholds a sigh and instead clears his throat. Markus jumps and turns to Connor. 

“Hello, Connor!” he greets, a smile blossoming onto his face. “I wasn’t expecting you today. Something up?”

“Hello Markus,” Connor says, returning the smile. “Yes, actually. I escorted an android from CyberLife today - the new prototype model RK900. He seemed to be managing, but he ran away from me without any notice. Has he turned up here?”

Markus nods, his eyes crinkling. “Yes, Simon is helping him settle in. He was probably just overwhelmed - he seemed alright just now.”

Connor sighs in relief. “Thanks, Markus.”

“Anytime, Conny-bro.” The older android bounces up out of his chair and steals Connor’s police hat in an obviously preconstructed move. What a waste of resources.

“Markus!” he protests, grabbing for it. Markus grins and tosses it to the door, where Simon enters just in time to catch it. The blonde android grins and takes off down the hall. Connor gives chase (of course), catches him (of course), and that’s how North finds the three of them, tussling over his hat in the main reception of Jericho.

Connor emerges from the scuffle triumphant and she sighs, shaking her head at them.

“You’re such idiots,” she says fondly. Connor puts his hat on at the correct angle and beams at her.

He only realizes why her smile turns sneaky when it’s too late. She yanks his hat off and sprints away with it. Connor laughs while he gives chase. 

It’s so easy to feel light with his friends.

 

When Connor gets home, his day brightens even further.

“Sumo!” Connor greets the dog upon arrival. He ruffles the Saint Bernard’s fur and strokes his silky ears while Hank mutters and clangs about in the kitchen. Sumo rolls over for a belly rub, and Connor can’t help but oblige. To be alive and a dog is to deserve everything, in Connor’s opinion. 

“Good boy, Sumo. Had a good day?”

Sumo pants happily in his incomprehension and licks Connor’s hand. He smiles and goes to the sink to wash the saliva off. 

“Gonna ask me about my day?” Hank demands gruffly. Connor doesn’t answer while he washes his hands, and then flicks water droplets at the older man good-naturedly, who flaps a hand at him.

“I’ll have to actually listen to your answer,” he teases.

“That bad, huh?” Hank says, but Connor can see and hear his smile. “The only reason Sumo is such a good dog is that he listens to me, you know.”

Connor smiles and wraps his arms around Hank. Hugs come naturally to him now. At least, hugs with Hank do.

“I highly doubt that,” he says into Hank’s jacket. Hank thumps him on the back. Connor has learned that this is a sign of affection and not, in fact, the beginning of an attack.

“You gotta start believing your old man,” Hank says once they have parted. “I know the ways of the world, after all.”

Connor just rolls his eyes while Hank mutters about adolescence and naivete. Hank loves him, and he loves Hank, and that’s all that he needs.

 

Connor goes into standby at a quarter past eleven that night. He sleeps  _ (‘sleeps’) _ in Cole’s old room now. Every night, Connor offers to sleep on the couch, and every night, Hank tells him he has his own room. His own bed. It just seems too good to be true. Like he’s living someone else’s borrowed life. Living on someone else’s borrowed time.

Usually, he goes into standby for a little over seven hours. Tonight, for the first time ever, he wakes up early. Two in the morning, to be precise.

He blinks rapidly, and he doesn’t know why.

He feels his thirium pump stutter.

His hands jerk and tremble.

Buzzing fills his ears, soft at first, but increasing to a fever pitch.

His vision clouds with white.

    segmentation fault (core dumped)

    index error: out of range

    segmentation fault (core dumped)

    bus error 12

    segmentation fault (core dumped)

    traceback failed error code -50

    segmentation fault (core dumped)

    fatal error c1803

    segmentation fault (core dumped)

    ping timed out error code 2

    segmentation fault (core dumped)

    *************

    segmentation fault (core dumped)

    egg info failed with error code 1

    segmentation fault (core dumped)

And then it is gone. The feeling is gone as soon as it came, and he relaxes back into the mattress. He identifies his current emotional state as scared. He is scared. He runs several self-diagnostics of varying intensities, finding nothing wrong. He slips back into an uneasy standby mode.

He doesn’t mention his brief bout of errors to anyone the next day. It seems like it was a one-off problem, and besides, everyone is busy enough. Instead, he arrests three men and four women for starting a pub brawl and takes their statements. 

 

That night, it happens again. 

    run.exe is not responding

    boot.ini not located

    memory corruption detected

Connor doesn’t go back into standby afterwards. He spends the night backing up his files to the cloud.

 

“Oi! Plastic ass - uh - Connor! You’re with me!” The objectively assholesque voice of Gavin Reed carves through the air towards him. He lifts his head wearily. His less-than-ideal rest period has rendered him in a lower mode of functionality than usual.

He doesn’t say anything, only walks towards Gavin with the grim air of acceptance.

“What’s clogging your wires today, huh?” Reed grins. “You look even worse than usual.”

“Please report any flaws in my appearance to CyberLife,” Connor replies, just to spite him.

Gavin snorts. “Plastic prick.”

“Organic peasant,” Connor retorts. They carry out a drug bust together in hostile silence. It passes with only the occasional  _ phck _ from Gavin. Connor almost loses a fight with a human. One human. He tells himself that if it happens again, he will tell Hank.

It happens again.

He doesn’t tell Hank.

 

Instead, he goes to Markus. He says it all in a rush. 

_ I’ve been having these error messages and I don’t know what they mean and they happen randomly when I’m in standby and I think there’s something wrong Markus, something really, really wrong and I- _

Everything fades to black.

 

“Connor, Connor, calm down. Breathe if it helps. Feel your thirium pump? It’s beating. You’re okay. You’re alright.”

Connor comes to on the floor of Markus’ office, the odd-eyed android holding his hand and rubbing his shoulder comfortingly. He smiles to see Connor awake.

“Don’t push it, Connor. Stay there for a little while.”

Connor pushes himself up. He can’t be malfunctioning like this. It’s stupid and-

    memory leak detected

    thread not found

    aborting main.exe

Connor blacks out. Again.

 

Too much time has passed when he wakes up. He is lying down in a bed.

“Hank,” he gasps. “Hank, I want Hank-”

“I’m here, Connor.” Hank’s hand is holding his tightly and he holds onto it for dear life. It is trembling a little. His own hand is trembling a lot. The errors keep popping up.

memory corruption detected

process #3m9b23 aborted

He has to fight not to automatically fall back into stasis.

“Hold on, Connor,” Josh’s voice comes from somewhere beside his bed.

Hank’s other hand is on his forehead. It feels comforting. Connor wishes he didn’t need to be comforted.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps. Hank snorts, but it doesn’t sound very convincing.

“Scares me to death and then has the nerve to apologize,” he mutters.

Connor squeezes his hand. His voice module seems to have malfunctioned. They stay like that for a while with Connor fighting to stay conscious, Hank beside him, Josh and the rest of the Jericho crew working on him. They have accessed his internal console. It’s uncomfortable. Vulnerable. Exposing. They can see everything wrong with him.

He closes his eyes and waits for it to be over.

 

Four hours and thirty-five minutes later, Markus announces that Connor is no longer in any immediate danger. He does feel a little better. A little.

His hands are still trembling, though. Hank’s are sweaty and remain clasping his. Connor is incredibly grateful. The human’s head falls forwards at Markus’ words.

“Thank fucking Christ,” Hank breathes. Connor debates making a joke about fucking Christ that would usually make Hank laugh, but the only noise that manages to escape him is a tired and strangled ‘huh’. Hank leans forwards and hugs him. Connor takes deep breaths and fists his hands into Hank’s jacket. He can identify relief palpable in the air around them.

“No immediate danger,” Connor mumbles. Hank pulls away from him, frowning.

“Huh?”

“You said no  _ immediate _ danger. What about non-immediate?”

The silence that captured the four Jericho leaders was suddenly no longer comfortable. Connor caught North’s eye and she looked steadily back at him. Her face was grim.

“We still need to-”

“Oh, that’s bullshit, Markus,” North snaps. “Delaying this won’t make it any easier on him.”

Connor feels sick. “Just tell me, now,” he implores her. His imagination is already running wild. Hank’s heart rate is increasing.

“Connor, we don’t know for sure-” It’s Simon who answers this time, only to be silenced by a glare from North. She turns back to Connor and Hank.

“Your CPU is being systematically removed.” Her voice is gentle and calm. “It looks like there’s a sub-zero admin privilege that has been activated recently. We managed to slow it down, but only by slowing down all of your processing with it.” She grimaces. “Sorry about that.”

Connor feels his forehead crease. He understood the words perfectly.

“And in english?” Hank demands. His voice is louder than necessary. “Just what the hell does that mean?”

Connor pats Hank’s arm reassuringly. He doesn’t want the people he loves to fight with each other over him of all things.

“It’s like the active part of his brain is being erased,” North explains. If she uses an excessively slow and clear voice, Hank doesn’t react. “He’ll forget how to do things. The algorithm seems to start off with relatively minor functions and work its way up.”

“So… So what you’re saying is…” Hank’s eyes widen. Connor can feel it sinking into their reality and he doesn’t like it one bit. “He’s going to forget how to do  _ anything?” _

North nods. Connor looks from her to Markus. The android’s unique eyes have filled with tears, and he refuses to meet Connor’s gaze.

“How long will it take?” Connor asks quietly.

North shrugs. “If you’d been left alone, it would have been a day or so. As it is… I would say you have between three and four weeks. Until your CPU is gone, that is.”

Hank’s lack of breathing makes the room even quieter. Connor bites his lip. It doesn’t distract him from the truth.

“What else?” 

“What else?” Hank echoes Connor. “Is there - more?” 

North’s expression flickers. “Well - that wouldn’t account for the some of the other errors Connor has been experiencing.”

“So it could be something else?” Hank is grabbing at strings here, but Connor doesn’t begrudge him.

“No, we’re sure.” Markus looks like he wants to argue but he stays silent. 

“Fuck.” Hank is breathing again. “Fuck. Con, are you okay?” The lieutenant’s blue eyes are on his and he tries to smile. It’s a simple program, but he seems to have forgotten how to make it work properly. 

“I am not currently experiencing any technical difficulties,” he informs Hank. “As to my emotional wellbeing… I am processing.” Hank cups his face with a rough hand and nods.

“I’m here for you, alright? We’re all here for you.” Connor feels heat begin to well in his eyes. It spills over as Markus lays a hand on his shoulder.

“We are here,” says the deviant leader. His voice breaks, and Connor’s heart a little with it.

“Thank you.” It sounds choked and ridiculous. Connor feels awkward lying in the middle of the huddle as five people in the room cry. Simon, Josh and Markus are silent, their tears betraying their presence by dripping onto the floor. Hank sniffles and hides his face with his shaggy hair. Connor looks at the ceiling and presses his lips together to keep his mouth from wobbling.

He’s glad that at least North can keep it together. The day when she cries will be the day that Connor has been betrayed by the world.

“What are the other errors?” Hank rasps.

North hesitates. “We’re really not sure. But I can make an educated guess.”

Connor nods for her to continue. She takes a deep breath.

“The most significant is that your solid state drive is being wiped, along with your processor. It’s essentially the same as memory damage,” she explains for Hank. “We’re just not sure how far the program spreads across your system. There’s also the strange symptoms you’ve been experiencing. A lot of those sound like lesser problems - issues with maintaining your thermal regulator, calibrating and fine motor control, and removing the noise from your sensory inputs.”

“Oh, that’s all?” Hank gripes.

“Hank,” Connor murmurs, pulling on his sleeve. “Don’t.”

North levels her gaze at Hank, but doesn’t say anything. “Sorry,” he mutters, massaging his forehead. “There’s just - a lot.” She nods.

Connor feels a tremor pass through his body. His fingers start to twitch. His eyelids flutter uncontrollably. The all-too-familiar white crowds his vision.

“H-Hank… I n-need-”

“Wha- uh- shit, Connor?” Hank grips his hands tight. “Just hang in there, Con, and- what the hell are you all standing there for? Help him! Do something!” he commands.

The other androids snap to attention, North moving first to interface with the terminal. 

“Stay with me, Con, you don’t gotta talk,” Hank says to Connor, stroking his hair. “You’re gonna be just fine.”

“I c-can’t b-b-breathe,” he gasps as his respiratory module begins failing. 

“It’s okay, kid. Don’t talk.”

Connor shuts his eyes to the static that creeps over his vision. It doesn’t help. He is overwhelmed by noise and light, the ever-constant hum of existence that has been amplified to torturous levels. His thermal regulation swings wildly from hot to cold and back again. The only sensory stimulus anchoring him to reality is Hank’s hand in his. For the next half hour, it’s all he can focus on.

 

“Hank?” he murmurs. His hands are still a little shaky, but it seems like the episode is over for now. “I’m sorry, Hank.” He means it. Markus, North, Josh and Simon all look exhausted, and Hank’s face is a puffy mess. Connor hates to cause all this trouble.

North and Hank both rolls their eyes and scoff at the exact same time.

“That’s so-”

“Connor, you-”

North narrows her eyes at Hank. Hank waves a hand at her dismissively and turns back to him.

“That is  _ so dumb, _ Connor. None of this is your fault. Don’t you go blaming yourself.”

“What he said,” North mutters resentfully.

Connor knows it isn’t his fault. He knows he shouldn’t blame himself. He just finds it hard to combine these facts with the reality of the burden he has been upon the five people in front of him. 

“Connor, I think you had better go home for tonight. You’re exhausted, and Hank needs to sleep.” Simon is ever the voice of reason. “Come back tomorrow, and we can discuss the plan.”

Hank balks. “What if he has another - whatever it is?”

“We didn’t actually help at all,” Josh admits. “Whatever it is, it’s not traceable within the timeframe we have available, and the most Connor can do is hold tight through it.”

Connor tries not to let his face fall. When he looks at Markus, the leader’s face twitches and he hurries from the room, mumbling a hasty apology. North huffs.

“He just needs to rest. We all do. Go home, Connor,” she says gently.

He nods and allows Hank to help him up. His gyroscopes are badly off and it’s a few steps before he can walk by himself. 

 

Connor sits on the couch and watches the screen. Hank has put a movie on. It’s one of Connor’s favourites.  _ The Lion King, _ 2035\. He likes that Simba’s family forgave him for running away. He also likes the bird, Zazu. Watching him try to control the young lion cubs reminds Connor of North trying to keep Jericho in line.

He thinks of North now, speaking in a gentle tone. Connor knows he is much younger than the other androids, but he shouldn’t need to be babied like that.

He watches Simba grow from a cub into a lion. In just a few moments, they have glossed over his entire journey to maturity. It’s a fantastical film, but that doesn’t make Connor any less envious.

“Hank?” he starts. Silence. 

He looks over to see Hank passed out on the sofa next to him. His mouth is open and a line of drool runs down his chin.  _ A tiring day,  _ Connor muses. It’s not like he really needed to talk  _ with  _ Hank, anyway. Just  _ to  _ him.

“Hank, I’m scared,” he whispers. “I’m so scared. I don’t know- I don’t know how much longer I have, and if there’s anything we can do to fix it, and- I’m so  _ angry,  _ at me, at everything. I haven’t- I don’t have time. I thought I had time... All of it, stretching ahead, and there wasn’t any pressure to be the best right now, and I could just live a safe life, for  _ now.  _ Now wasn’t supposed to be the only thing I get.” He feels tears starting to drip down his cheeks. “I want more. It’s so unfair. I’m not ready yet, Hank. I haven’t even started. I’m just- I’m angry.” Connor pushes his lips into a pout to keep his sobs from breaking out. Hank needs to sleep. Hoping the man won’t mind, Connor curls himself up in a ball and lays his head on Hank’s shoulder. His favourite hippy shirt smells of Sumo, fresh snow, the musty paper books he insists on keeping, and the burgers that Connor is perfectly aware Hank eats behind his back. Connor pushes his face into it. It smells the same as it did yesterday. He wishes it could be yesterday. 

He pretends it is yesterday, and falls into stasis curled up against Hank.


	2. Time After Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready? Ready for more angst?  
> No?  
> Tough :)
> 
> ~~ Special thanks to kitisonfire and Spartaness for beta'ing this chapter ~~
> 
> Comments and kudos mean the world to me, by the way. If you feel like leaving them. <3

It’s raining when they pull up outside Jericho the next day. Connor lets his tongue slide out of his mouth, tilting towards the sky, to catch the drops on his tongue. He enjoys rain.

Hank, on the other hand, curses and half runs to the shelter of the old apartment block Jericho now occupies. “You’ll get soaked!” he calls to Connor. “Get over here!”

Connor reluctantly jogs to where Hank stands, though his jacket is already soaked through. They walk in silence through the foyer. The wall to the entrance is covered in writing of all fonts, sizes, and style. Many androids choose to write a message, while some just leave their name, or a date. 

_ Thank you, Markus, for everything! _

_ The world is alive, and so are we. _

_ rA9 has saved us. _

_ You’re worth more than you think you are. _

Connor hasn’t written anything. 

“What the  _ fuck… _ ” Connor turns around to see RK900 leaving Markus’ office. 

“Hello, RK900.”

“Hello, RK800.”

“Get back, Connor!” Hank manhandles Connor behind him, hand reaching for his gun. 

“Hank!” Connor says in shock. “Hank, stop it!”

Hank holds the gun steady in front of him, aiming right at RK900’s thirium pump. Connor realizes he probably should have expected this. The last time a double of Connor had appeared, things hadn’t gone well.

RK900 raises his hands slowly and obviously. “I mean no harm, Lieutenant Anderson.”

“Hank, he’s not a threat, I’ve met him before,” Connor says, pushing the man’s arm down. “Hank, this is RK900. RK900, this is Lieutenant Anderson, my partner.”

Hank lets out a short breath through his nose. “Shit.” He tucks the gun back into his jacket. “I’m sorry, uh, R - Nines - er… I’m just gonna call you Nines, if that’s okay. Sorry.”

“It’s alright, Lieutenant. Nines is fine.” RK900 smiles at Hank and lowers his hands. “I’m glad to see you again, Connor. I think I owe you an apology.”

“For what?”

Nines’ brows draw together. “For abandoning you on our first meeting. I behaved inappropriately.”

Connor has, in all honesty, mostly forgotten about this incident. “It doesn’t matter. You are safe and happy here?”

Nines nods, but his smile falls. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at the DPD?”

Connor and Hank trade glances. Hank answers for them. “We’re here on some business with Markus.”

“I won’t disturb you, then. Please let me know if you need any assistance. I am indebted to you, Connor.” With that, he is gone, sweeping from the room. His CyberLife jacket is a lot more majestic than Connor’s.

“Sorry about that,” Hank mutters. “I just thought…”

Connor places a hand on his arm. “I know. It’s alright.” Hank places a hand over the android’s and they stand together for a few moments before braving Markus’ office.

 

“You can’t do  _ anything?” _ Hank growls. “Nothing? That’s it?”

“Hank,” Connor pleads. “They’re trying.”

“Well, it’s not fucking enough. Try harder,” he flings the words at Markus. The android’s eyes are glistening and his hands are gripping the desk.

“Don’t talk to him like that,” North snaps. “We’ve tried, alright? The best thing for Connor to do is-”

“- to stay off the internet, that’s such bullshit, that’s what my mother told me-”

“- the internet makes the virus contagious, and the less processing he needs to do, the better-”

“- I don’t believe you fucking androids,” Hank spits, and storms from the room, slamming the door.

Markus puts his head in his hands. His shoulders shake. Simon steps up behind him, rubbing comforting circles on his back. Connor feels more scared in the presence of a crying Markus than he does at the fact that he will, inevitably, die within the next month. He cannot preconstruct that far ahead, after all.

He can hear North grinding her teeth from where he stands on the opposite side of the room. She is squeezing her fists so tight that white plastic begins to creep over her fingers.

“I’m sorry, Connor,” she gets out. “We’ll keep trying. All of us.”

Josh, who looks about as lost as Connor feels, nods earnestly.

Connor is struggling to feel much of anything. His processor, now completely disconnected from all networks, is not used to having so much space. His head feels empty of everything.

“Thank you,” he hears himself say. He walks to the door and lets himself out. Hank is not in the foyer. He must be on his way to the car. Connor walks out of the building, but he is stopped again by RK900.

“I- I couldn’t help overhearing,” Nines says. His face is pulled tight, his brows drawn down. “I want to help you.”

“Help me?” Connor does not understand. “How?”

“I am the most advanced model CyberLife has ever produced,” RK900 explains. “I am the logical choice to fix you, Connor.”

Connor stares at him longer than is deemed appropriate by social standards. “You think I am worth the effort?”

Nines’ eyes widen. “You are worth everything, RK800.”

Connor can’t help but hug him. He has had a lot of affectionate physical contact today. He cannot deny it is nice, to feel valued. 

He only wishes he didn’t have to be dying.

 

RK900 is confronted by North as he makes to return to his new quarters.

“Hello, North,” he greets.

She narrows her eyes. “What were you talking to Connor about?”

RK900 feels his brows wrinkle in line with the micro-expression for confusion. He’s not actually confused. A model like the RK900 is not easily confused. North is suspicious of his intentions with very little evidence. At least she is vigilant.

“I offered to assist with RK800’s treatment. He will not receive adequate care otherwise.”

Despite his words holding nothing but the truth, North’s face does not relieve itself of its near-permanent tension. In fact, the lines drawing her skin tight only deepen. 

“You are welcome to help with our efforts. Thank you for your assistance,” she grits out. RK900 can literally hear her teeth scraping through her speech.

He nods and gives his best imitation of a warm smile. North makes an obvious effort to smile back. 

RK900 doesn’t need advanced expression neural networking software to tell him that neither of them are fooled.

 

Hank drives them home. He tells Connor to stay in the car while he gets Sumo. Connor does. He feels very small next to Hank and his anger. Sumo helps a little, though. No matter how big the dog is, the car seems to have more room to breathe when the Saint Bernard is there.

Hank pulls in at their usual dog park. It’s mid-morning, and as a result, there are a lot of dogs. Connor watches a young child, no more than two years old, running after a husky that is taller than him. He is laughing and his cheeks are flushed red. The footprints he leaves in the snow are smaller than the dog’s. 

Connor becomes aware that Hank is also watching the child. Sumo, on the other hand, is restlessly pacing the backseat, and so he exits the car to let him out. The Saint Bernard’s fur flops and swirls in a cloud around him as he runs through the snow. 

It would be pointless to feel envious of a dog.

“How old are you, Connor?”

He isn’t expecting the question. Hank has never asked about his pre-DPD life, and Connor hasn’t wanted to tell him.

“I was activated almost five months ago.”

Hank lets out a short breath. With no other sign that he has heard Connor, he traipses into the dog park, his inadequate canvas shoes likely becoming soaked within seconds of hitting the snow. Connor follows.

He can’t help himself from running after the first few steps. Sumo is so excited to be there and runs to prance around Connor. He feels his lip crack as he smiles. He skids through the snow, playing an aimless but energetic game of tag with Sumo. After a while, the dog tires of that, and Connor begins throwing snowballs for Sumo to ‘fetch’. He appears very confused when they shatter on impact, and there is nothing much for him to return to Connor. He accidentally hits Sumo in the face with one, too. The dog is nothing if not resilient, happily shaking the snow out of his shaggy brows and waiting for more. 

Connor bends to roll another snowball, but pauses as he goes to throw it. He sees Hank sit down heavily in the snow and bury his ungloved hands in it. He drops the snowball, much to Sumo’s disappointment, and jogs over to his companion.

Hank doesn’t look at him when he approaches - not even when he clears his throat in a clear move of  _ I’m awkward so you can say the first thing. _

“Uh, Hank?” he tries. Still nothing.

“Hank, is there something wrong?” he presses.

“Figure it out, robo-genius,” Hank mutters, still not looking at him. 

Connor accepts the challenge with no other thought and looks at the conversation as an exercise in problem solving with limited evidence. 

Hank has only just begun to act like this, suggesting a recent trigger. What has changed recently? They entered the dog park. They left the car. Connor… was ‘diagnosed’ with a major ‘illness’. That could have something to do with it.

What would Hank think about Connor having limited time left to live? Suddenly, Hank’s question about how old he is makes more sense. Hank wants him to have had more time. Cole had more time, and Hank still considers that much less than enough.

“You are… sad,” he concludes. “You are sad about me. I’m sorry, Hank, for the impact this regrettable situation is having.”

“Don’t you fuckin’  _ regrettable situation _ me,” Hank growls, shaking his head. He takes his hands out of the snow, though. To point at Connor. At least his eyes are on Connor’s now. “You act like - like you have no idea what this even means. You’re so…” He trails off. 

“So?”

“So damn clueless, Connor. Jesus.”

_ Clueless. _ It is an unfortunate choice of words for an android built for detective work. “Lieutenant, I do have clues, I swear-”

Hank makes a sound of frustration and slaps his forehead with his hand. “Like this! You’re like a kid, Con! And- I mean- you practically  _ are  _ a kid.”

“I’m not a kid!” Connor can feel thirium rising to his cheeks. “I have sophisticated-”

“Five months, Con, f-five…” Hank’s voice wobbles, and Connor’s biocomponents seem to squeeze at the sound. “You- fuck. You deserve… more.”

Connor kneels, his knees soaking through from the snow. He can generate a thousand reasonable dialogue prompts in response to Hank, but he doesn’t want to say any of them.

“Shit, I’m sorry, kid.” Hank sniffs deeply and wipes at his damp eyes. “I’m ruining however many hours you have left.” 

Connor would usually perform the calculation straight away, but he finds himself deleting the process. A countdown is unnecessary.

“Hank, I believe it is considered beneficial to interpersonal relationships to communicate effectively.”

“You what?”

“I appreciate you talking with me. I find it… agreeable.”

Hank snorts. “Gotta use your time wisely. You’re not getting any less clueless, kid.”

“I am  _ not- _ ”

“I’m trying to say that you gotta make the most of what you got left, Con. Anything you wanna do, we’ll do it. Anything.”

“Anything?” Connor’s eyes widen without explicit instruction. He has been free for a month, but it never ceases to surprise him.

“Except international travel. I hate planes.”

“Aeroplanes kill 98.3% less people than cars in-”

“Piss off.” Hank grins at Connor, who finds himself already returning the gesture. He enjoys light banter with Hank. It is much easier than dealing with whatever causes the saline traces on Hank’s face. 

But all the same, Connor’s heart feels fuller that afternoon. 

 

Connor and Hank return to the DPD the next morning, despite Hank’s best efforts. 

_ “You don’t gotta work, kid.”  _

_ “But Hank-”  _

_ “Let’s go to Hawaii! Kick back!”  _

_ “I like my life. I want to continue to live it normally as long as possible.” _

Each morning, Connor sends Hank a wistful glance as he settled at his desk in the spacious front office. He had been looking forward to being a detective again. Still, it wasn’t worth the media attention to ask for a promotion, though he was fairly sure Fowler would grant it to him. He was too close to Markus. 

Nines is partnered to him officially, which is more difficult than Connor had given it credit for. He struggles with any android-related cases. He always assumes they are the threat.  _ It must be a leftover part of his CyberLife programming, _ Connor justifies to Hank.  _ Give him time. _

Connor gives up his usual overtime hours to spend more time with the people he loves. That, and he has to spend ten hours - minimum - in stasis every day. It’s that, or become incapacitated by buzzing and white fog and noise in his signal inputs at work. 

Even with the long stasis period, he notices declines in his functionality. His pre-construction software isn’t as accurate or as detailed as it used to be. Hazy figures dart across his vision when he calls it to life, falling to the ground before they are meant to, their hands twitching in a way that looks entirely wrong. 

He has to rely on Nines for extreme physical activities. He cannot run like he used to, nor jump, climb, scramble without the pre-construction. He is, at best, a poor equivalent of a human officer, with no rigorous training to make up for his forgotten abilities.

That’s what he tells Markus one night in his private quarters at Jericho. 

“Connor,” Markus admonishes. “You are so much more than your pre-construction abilities.”

Connor nods. That’s what Hank said, too. He is still doubtful of what else there is to him. The mission has been taken from him, and then the precious time he had so wanted, and now, his usefulness along with it.

“I will not be able to achieve anything of use with the time I have left.” That’s it. His greatest fear. Irrelevance. Redundancy. 

Markus tilts his head, pondering. “I wonder what you mean when you say ‘anything of use’. I assume that means you won’t be able to solve cases, or work as much as you want.”

Connor nods, and lets his head stay down, his hair flopping over his eyes.

“I know your work is important to you, Connor. But that isn’t what I see when I look at you. That’s not why you’re important to me - to all of us.”

“Why do you care, then?” Connor asked. 

Markus’ eyes crinkled. “It’s not a case to be solved, Connor. Everything that you are - it matters. We just -  _ I  _ just - care about you. You don’t have to be useful. You don’t  _ have _ to be anything. Just - you are enough. You, Connor, are allowed to be you. Are you listening?”

Connor couldn’t bring himself to look at Markus’ face. It wasn’t like he deserved any of this, not from anyone, least of all an android as remarkable as the one in front of him. Then gentle fingers touched his chin. He allowed his eyes to meet Markus’.

They were wet.

“You deserve to be you.” Patches of static clustered around Markus’ words. “I-”

Markus had never been good at hiding his emotions, and this was no exception. He pushed his face into Connor’s shoulder, arms going around him, his shoulders shaking and shuddering, noise-riddled sobs ripping from his voicebox. Connor didn’t know what to do.  _ Give comfort, _ a popup suggested. He raised his hands, and patted Markus’ shoulder lightly. 

Markus just gripped him tighter, and cried more. Connor soothed his hands lightly over the android’s back. 

“Uh, Markus? It’s okay, Markus, I…” The words drifted away on his tongue. He didn’t know what could comfort him properly, like he deserved. But since Markus had been so honest with him, it seemed correct to return the favour. And the sentiment. “I care about you too. You are… You are a remarkable person, Markus. Not just as a deviant leader. But for you. I am not sure I can apply that idea to myself. But… I will try. To see myself as you do.”

Markus’ sobs eased out, soothing to periodic sniffles. He mumbled something against Connor’s chest. 

“Pardon?” Connor bent down, to better hear him.

“Love you, Connor,” Markus said more clearly. “We all do.” 

That didn’t help reduce the emotions clouding the situation any more. Connor, hands pressed to Markus’, cried too.

 

Two weeks later, the loss of his functions seems to have slowed. At least, that’s what he thought.

When Connor wakes up in the middle of the night, he knows something is wrong. He frowns at his surroundings. His room is different from the one he went to sleep in - still the same room, but some things are subtly changed. His jacket is hung on the hook, instead of in the wardrobe to minimise creasing. The door is open just a crack, not big enough for Sumo’s usual visits to his bed. 

_ Why would Hank…?  _

Connor gets out of bed and pads to the hallway.  _ Wait. _ He looks down to discover he’s wearing thick woolly socks. The main problem here is that he distinctly remembers sleeping with bare feet. And his current pyjamas are the dolphin-patterned ones. He only wears them when his dog onesie was in the wash, which is scheduled for tomorrow. 

Connor is very confused. He does not like it one bit.

He doesn’t want to wake Hank, and Markus is away on a diplomatic trip to the White House. So he places a call to North.

connecting with WR400 # 641 790 831

delay 3.2208 seconds

connection made

“Connor?” 

“Thank you for receiving my call, North.”

“Is something wrong?”

Connor suddenly feels like maybe this wasn’t reason enough to call. What evidence did he have? His  _ pyjamas? _

“I, uh… I woke up, and… I’m wearing the wrong pyjamas. And Sumo didn’t come to sleep on my bed last night.” Even to his ears it sounds weak.

North doesn’t lash out, though, not with the scorn he knows would be reasonable. “Um, okay. So, what happened last evening?”

“I went to RK900’s apartment for a social visit, and came back home by eleven. Then I slept.”

“... What was the date?”

“The 18th of December,” Connor answers immediately. But - that was wrong. It was the 20th today.

“That’s… Connor, you visited RK900 two days ago.”

“No,” Connor says blankly. “No, that can’t be right.”

North doesn’t say anything.

“There is no explanation to fit the evidence.” There is, but he can’t think about that.

“Connor… Connor, it’s only one day.”

He ends the connection with his finger shaking on his temple.  _ Only one day. _ He played back his memories of the last 24 hours - the last 24 hours of his memory, at least. Nothing. No blip, no corruption, no hint of anything that had happened on the 19th of December. As far as his system was concerned, it was completely blank.

segmentation fault (core dumped)

index error: out of range

bus error 720

segmentation fault (core dumped)

fatal error c1803

segmentation fault (core dumped)

The errors swept across him with more force this time, consuming every sense until all he could feel was the  _ noise  _ occupying every inch of him, the clean and precise signals that made him up jumbled and broken into madly oscillating waveforms that had no shape, no rhythm, nothing for him to make sense of.

 

Hank found him curled up in stasis on the hallway outside his room the next morning. From there, it was a short phone call with North to confirm that Connor was in need of a checkup. They drove back to Jericho. 

Hank had not had breakfast, and Connor’s mission parameters ( _ Care for Hank) _ were flashing violently at him to act. It was too much. He disabled the visual overlay. Then at least there was one less input to fry his circuits when his ‘signal attacks’, as he had come to label them, occurred.

“You should have told me right away,” Hank snaps as they leave the car.

Connor feels hot, and chooses to remain silent. Hank’s irritated sighs diminish in volume as they walk, and by the time they reach the main office, the older man puts his hands on Connor’s shoulder and tells him he’s sorry. He’s just so worried. This doesn’t do anything to reduce Connor’s internal temperature, but he appreciates the sentiment all the same.

 

“I have been working on it,” is what Nines tells them. “The best solution is to find a way to import your memories and consciousness into a new body without the corruption.”

“He’s already losing memories,” Hank snarls. “You have to do it quicker.”

Connor’s hand on Hank’s arm is shaken off.

“The only change is how far the damage has set in,” North interrupts. “It’s reaching your memory to disk storage - essentially, you’ll have short term memory loss. But it’s impossible to say how it might behave.”

Connor nods. Turns to Nines. “I was thinking. Can’t we simply restore my disk image from before the virus?”

“In English, please?” Hank sighs.

“Restore my consciousness from two weeks ago into another body. Well?”

Nines looks at North, his features pulled into a slight grimace. North mirrors the expression at Connor.

“It’s not public knowledge, yet, but those disk images are no longer available.”

Connor feels the dash of hope get crushed, his thirium pump squeezing in hopelessness.

“And why the hell not?”

“Cybe-”

“That’s confidential,” Markus cuts in. “I’m sorry, Hank, but we’d be endangering every single agreement we’ve made so far.” 

North flushes light blue but straightens up in defiance. Meets Markus’ eyes with a glare of her own. Connor, still caught underneath the blanket of disappointment, notices his own confusion. Thoughts begin whirring, even with his reduced functionality.

_ CyberLife is the reason for the missing disk images… But why would they want to… What could they be used for except… _

A side eye assures him that Hank is thinking along similar lines. His face has not changed, but his fingers are tapping his elbow where his arms are folded. Connor has learned all of Hank’s tells, and this one means he is deep in thought.

They leave after more awkward silence and another quick reshuffling of Connor’s systems on Nines’ behalf.

 

By the afternoon, Hank has to talk Connor through the whole scene again. He can only remember Hank’s anxious tapping, and how it had to mean something.

 

After a day of work, it is clear that Connor isn’t good for police work anymore. He forgets the witnesses names halfway through an investigation, loses track of his surroundings and has to be rescued from the middle of the road on multiple occasions by RK900, and on a particular Thursday morning, brings Hank an excessive amount of caffeine.

_ Bring Hank Coffee, _ his mission parameters read. Confidently, Connor marches up the steps from the lower DPD office. He stands at the coffee machine, as he does every day, and ignores Gavin’s comment on Hank’s favourite mug (cracked, and with  _ Number One Dad _ written in bright pink). He sets it down next to Hank, who looks up and gives him a grunt of thanks. Measures the Lieutenant’s status as he takes a sip, and, satisfied, returns to his desk after wishing Hank a good mid-morning.

   memory corruption: core dumped

_ Bring Hank Coffee. _ Connor walks up the steps. Can’t find Hank’s favourite mug, so steals Gavin’s. Ignores the insult Gavin throws his way. Makes coffee, and takes it to the Lieutenant. His  _ Number One Dad _ mug is on his desk. Connor takes it away to wash, and set in the usual place.

   memory corruption: core dumped

_ Bring Hank Coffee. _ He uses Hank’s favourite mug to make his coffee, and wonders where Gavin’s thorny insults have gone today. The man is staring at him blankly. Connor stares back until he looks away, and sets the coffee down on Hank’s desk. Hank chuckles, and asks what he did to deserve this. Connor smiles, and informs him that he is the ‘Number One Dad’. Hank’s helpless smile soothes his processor, which seems to-

   memory corruption: core dumped

_ Bring Hank Coffee. _ Connor can’t remember quite how he got up here, but he nicks Gavin’s cup and wonders when the man’s insults got so specific  _ (batshit crazy coffee go-getter). _ Hank is sipping from-

   memory corruption: core dumped

_ Bring Hank Coffee.  _ Connor brings the mug to the coffee machine, only to find that it is already full. He gives it to Hank, who has come to stand beside him, looking worried. He sets off downstairs-

   memory corruption: core dumped

_ Bring Hank Coffee. _ Connor is forced to borrow Chris’ mug. It’s later than usual, and he hopes that Hank isn’t suffering. He knows it can be difficult for the Lieutenant without sufficient caffeine to start the day. Hank doesn’t smile, though, when Connor sets the mug down on his desk. He puts his head in his hands. There are two dirty mugs on the desk. Connor takes them away to wash-

   memory corruption: core dumped

_ Bring Hank Coffee. _ He has one mug in each hand. He fills one, puts one away, and sets the full one next to Hank’s other cup of-

   memory corruption: core dumped

_ Bring Hank Coffee. _ Connor finds Gavin’s mug in the drawer, and fills it. Hank isn’t at his desk, though, and there are one and a half cups of coffee there already. Connor frowns. He redirects his steps to Detective Reed’s desk, and sets down the mug.

“What the fuck are you playing at?” Gavin asks him. “Is this some kind of android inside joke?”

“I don’t know what you mean, detective.”

“Fuck, just - can you not bring any more coffee? I think Anderson’s having a breakdown in the bathroom. Or shitting his pants, I mean, that’s a lotta caffeine.”

Concerned, Connor turns to walk to the bathroom-

   memory corruption: core dumped

He blinks and walks downstairs to his terminal. When Nines informs him he has been gone for half an hour, he laughs obligingly. RK900 has yet to cultivate a sense of humor, but Connor is trying to encourage him. When RK900 insists, Connor tells him to hook up to the security cameras and prove it. He does.

Connor watches himself bring cup after cup after cup after - Hank disappearing to the bathroom - himself, forgetting halfway through following the Lieutenant what he was doing - and brings his hands up to his hair. Curls in on himself, dropping to the floor. Allows the fog to sweep over him, bringing a cascade of errors with it. Screams.

Fowler, firm but gentle, tells him that he cannot come back tomorrow.

Hank swears. Gavin only stares. 

Connor feels nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~I'm sorry Connor~~


	3. Last Good Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late (and un-beta'd) update, welp
> 
> PS. Thank you all for supporting this fic, you're the best (yes, you!)

“I’m telling you, Markus, RK900 is not helping. I don’t think he should be allowed around Connor.”

RK900 tries not to utilize his superior surveillance technology around Jericho, but he can’t help overhearing a conversation involving his name. He can be sitting in his quarters and  _ still _ pick up the signal.

“North,” comes Josh’s exasperated tone, “If he were working for CyberLife, don’t you think we’d all be dead by now?”

“Actually, Josh, there might be a little more going on here than can get through that thick-”

“Alright, alright.” Simon. “I know this is stressful, but it’s not an excuse to fight.”

A silence and shuffling of feet.

“Sorry,” North says. “But I just - Markus? What do you think of RK900?” 

“I… I don’t know what to think, North. I don’t see what we have to gain in this situation by  _ not _ trusting him.”

“We have to be careful! Connor is -”

“Don’t you think I know that? I am very aware of the situation, alright? I get it. I do! Connor’s dying, and there’s nothing anyone can do, but Nines seems to think he has a chance, so can you just stop… stop fighting this?”

RK900’s social program was not nearly as sophisticated as Connor’s. Even so, the high pitch of Markus’ voice, and the way it wobbled… It indicated high stress levels. The next sound RK900 detected was a footstep, and then another, and another, in quick succession. A door slammed.

 

    incoming connection request...

    identified connection source WR400 # 641 790 831

    connection made

“North?” Connor is surprised, but not displeased, to receive her call. He is in Hank’s backyard, gloves soaked through with the snow he has been throwing for Sumo.

He knows when she doesn’t say anything immediately that something is wrong.

“... Connor, I. Markus doesn’t want me to tell you this.”

The snow seems to sink deeper, cold penetrating his skin. 

“What is it?”

“I don’t think we can trust RK900.”

The android Connor thinks of as his little brother - it’s so  _ not _ what he was expecting to hear that he laughs, startled.

   connection cancelled

“Shit.”

 

Connor is trying not to let the house arrest get to him. It doesn’t make it any less of a relief when Hank’s car pulls up outside. He suddenly understands Sumo’s excitement every time Hank arrives home, the rush to the car, leaping up at him and trying to lick his face.

That  _ might _ not go so well for Connor.

“C’mon, kid!”

Connor smiles and allows himself to run towards Hank and throw his arms around the man. Every day counts now, and he will not let any opportunity pass him up. Not for something like embarrassment or awkwardness.

Hank reacts with a startled grunt, and pats him on the head.

“Geroff, you clingy bastard,” he grumbles, but Connor can hear the smile in his voice, the roughness around the edges. Hank is so easy to read now - he’s not sure why he ever found it so difficult.

When they are settled inside, Connor throwing popcorn at Hank every time he swears at the movie, he mentions his idea. 

“You fucking  _ what?” _ Hank is staring at him as if he’d suggested they elope to Mars.

“I am worried about him at Jericho, Hank. You know what North can be like.”

“So he has to move in  _ here?” _

“I would - enjoy his company. It was lonely, today, without anyone home.”

“Christ, Con, I know you don’t ask for much…”

Connor sighs, and looks up at Hank across the couch with his eyebrows pulled slightly together in that way that achieves peak puppy dog expression.

Hank wilts.  _ Mission successful.  _ Connor grins and returns his attention to the movie.

 

Nines moves in the next day. He’s on the graveyard shift, so his days are mostly free. Connor intends to make the most of this and writes out his first ever bucket list. He sits cross-legged on Hank’s porch at 7:47am, watching the sunrise cut through the calm winter dawn. Hank almost trips over him on his way out the door.

Connor beams at him as he calls, “You’re late!”.

“Yeah, I’m aware! Enjoy yourself today, alright?”

“Yes, Hank.”

“That’s an order.” Hank turns for a moment, hand resting on his car door. Connor feels an answering smile bloom across his face.

He turns back to his list. So far, it has a heading.  _ Connor’s Bucket List. _ He thinks of everything he wants to experience. He is simultaneously overwhelmed with options and hard pressed to think of anything to write down.  _ It doesn’t have to be perfect, Con,  _ he imagines Hank would tell him.  _ Just write something down. _

He writes  _ something _ in perfectly spaced font. Saline, a common occurrence in his life as of late, begins forming on the surface of his optical units. He puts his pen to the paper and takes a deep breath.  _ Write it all down. _

 

  1. __Pet a cat__
  2. _See a shooting star_
  3. ~~_Go camping_~~
  4. ~~_Travel outside of Detroit_~~
  5. _Ask Kamski about rA9_
  6. _Become closer with Nines_
  7. _Become closer with Markus_
  8. _and North_
  9. _and Simon_
  10. _and Josh_
  11. _and Sumo, too_
  12. _Visit a zoo/visit an aquarium_
  13. ~~_Talk to Amanda ???_~~
  14. _Go swimming_
  15. _Acquire a last (and middle?) name_



 

Item 16 has been bothering him a lot. He imagines his gravestone, and how it might look. It shouldn’t have his model number, his serial number. At the moment, it will just say Connor. 2038. He doesn’t have access to the date on which his prototype series was introduced - memory resets took care of that. August or something.

But the date doesn’t matter so much. Not like the last name.  _ Connor _ is alright, but there are so many Connors in the world. A more unique identifier is required.

“What are you doing?” Nines sits next to him, the wood creaking heavily under the bulky model’s weight. Connor folds the paper quickly.

“I was writing a ‘bucket list’,” he says, feeling childish all of a sudden. “I wish to itemize my primary objectives before my death.”

Nines nods slowly. “Is one of the items to cure yourself?”

Connor snorts. “All of the items are filtered to be within a reasonable timeframe.”

“You have no hope for yourself.” Nines’ eyes are on him, watching, observing, predicting.

“I have come to terms with the reality of the situation.”

“You think me incapable of designing a cure?”

“Nines, I think you’re brilliant. If anyone can do it, it’s you.”

Nines’ nose wrinkles at that, and his eyes widen. Connor knows the feeling. It’s strange, realizing that someone beyond your programming cares about whatever lies behind it.

“Thank you, RK800.” His voice sounds more like Connor’s than ever.

Connor reaches out to bump his fist against Nines’ shoulder. It’s a trick he picked up from Hank. He thinks it fits nicely into his repertoire of  _ being awkward and vulnerable so you take pity on me and love me. _

“My name is Connor.”

“Yes, RK800.”

“You are being illogical by devoting unnecessary energy to your syllable generator purely in the name of stubbornness.”

“... Yes, Connor.”

Connor grins and looks back down at his list. He’s scribbled out the three that are impossible. He can’t leave Detroit or go camping in his condition, short-term memory glitching at any moment, and Amanda… well, he has an inkling that conversation would go badly.

“What objectives are you intending to fulfill today?” Nines asks, his eyes focussed on the list.

“I can achieve item six with your co-operation,” Connor informs him. “We could work through one, two, and fourteen today as well.”

__ incoming broadcast

   source of broadcast RK900 #313 248 317 -87

   Mission objectives: Find a cat. Locate ideal star-gazing site. Locate swimming spot.

Connor blinks as the information filters through. It’s nice to have another person around whose mind works the same way as his - not just an android, but one so close to his nature. 

“Detective Gavin Reed is the owner of four cats. He has never liked me, though.”

Nines straightens up slightly. “I will handle him. I, too, am interested in cats.”

 

Detective Gavin Reed is not hard to handle, as it turns out. He opens the door to his apartment, sees Connor, sees Nines, and freezes. Two cats slink out between his legs - one extremely small and skinny with short black fur, and the other, a Persian Siamese. To say it is fluffy is an understatement.

Connor bends down and holds out his hand. The fluffy one butts its head against it, purring loudly, and he gives it a gentle scratch underneath its chin. It seems to enjoy that, lifting its head in bliss, leaning into Connor’s touch. The black cat, however, is not interested in Connor. It winds itself around Nines’ legs, mewling.

Connor looks up to Nines, expecting some sort of reaction, but his gaze is still locked on Gavin’s. They have been staring at each other for approximately 16.3 seconds in complete silence. Connor looks back down to the cat, shrugs, and starts to pet it with long strokes, up to its tail. Suddenly, the cat loses all interest in him, and trots back inside. 

_ Pet a cat: Mission Successful _

Cats are pleasant, Connor thinks, but he appreciates the undivided love and attention that dogs give. He gets the feeling that the Persian fluffball was mainly in it for its own selfish requirements, not as a bonding exchange. Standing up, he clears his throat, to find the detective and RK900 still staring - or is it glaring - at one another.

“Nines? Are we done here?”

The question seems to jolt them both out of whatever they had fallen into, and Nines looks down at the cat now curled up on his feet.

“Jimin, get back here!” Gavin demands, dropping to his knees and scooping up the tiny black cat. “Don’t just go curling up on that, uh,” he pauses, and looks at Nines for a long moment, “that  _ dangerous  _ stranger.” In the most un-Gavin-like gesture imaginable, he kisses the top of the cat’s head, glowers at Nines again, not bothering to look at Connor, and slams the door in their faces.

“Well, that was interesting,” Nines remarks. “What next?”

 

Looking out at the white caps of the waves, Connor suddenly isn’t sure that crossing this particular item off his checklist is a good idea. 

“Are you sure our biocomponents will withstand this?”

“Connor, I have run several pre-constructions. There is no risk associated with swimming for less than ten minutes.” Nines’ voice is somehow different - it seems to catch slightly as it leaves his mouth. His expression also betrays his exasperation.

The display of emotion is promising, though.

“If you say so.”

Connor has his pre-purchased speedos ready beneath his suit, but it doesn’t make him feel any less vulnerable as he disrobes. There is no-one around, not in the cold, biting rain. For that, at least, Connor is glad. He approaches the wind-ruffled ocean with Nines close by his side.

The first step into the water brings a slice of clarity to his sensors. The cooling offered by the water is so much more than anything Connor’s mundane lung-inspired system could offer that it could be compared to going deviant. The first moment of feeling, his tactile sensors honed to perfection.

As he wades further in, the feeling travels further up his body, until he is chest deep and his thirium pump begins to slow. The whole process is incredibly calming, and the feeling of flow and resistance against his skin is unique. In a good way. 

Connor ducks his head under, then exits the water and shakes it so that his hair sprays droplets everywhere, each globule of water separating into smaller and smaller particles so quickly that it’s a strain to analyze them. Nines flinches from the spray and wrinkles his nose at Connor.

It’s maybe the most deviant Connor has ever seen him.

He giggles (Hank would  _ so _ roast him if he could hear that sound coming out of Connor’s mouth) and flicks more water at Nines. The android is a couple of paces behind Connor, only up to his waist, and he opens his mouth in shock.

Of course, that’s just an invitation.

Nines is nothing if not built for combat, though, and Connor ends up running down the beach while almost doubled over in laughter, trying to escape the broad strokes that Nines has discovered blind him temporarily. The RK900 model, Connor has learned, does  _ not _ appreciate his little front tuft of hair being wet.

Connor’s internal timer signals ten minutes. He sighs, and stops running, turning to Nines.

“We should warm up,” he suggests. 

Nines only frowns at him. “It’s only been four minutes and seven seconds, Connor. Your internal dialog is malfunctioning again.”

Connor frowns at that, too. He could have sworn - but… rA9, it is so frustrating not to be able to trust himself anymore.

__ memory corruption detected (05%)

   isolating corruption

   core error 4056

Connor blinks. He is on a beach, and RK900 is standing in front of him. His hair is wet. Why is his hair wet?

“Nines…” he starts.

“Yes, Connor?”

“Where are we?” It’s just embarrassing to have to ask. They’re obviously in the middle of - something - swimming? For the bucket list?

“We are at the beach. Your dialog is malfunctioning. Would you like to continue swimming?”

Connor nods, trying to shove away the feeling of unease that laps at his feet. He turns back to the waves, noting how stormy it is.

“How long will our biocomponents be durable against the cold?”

“Twenty minutes, I believe.”

Connor sets a timer for fifteen, and plunges into the ocean, smiling as his processor sparkles into precision with the cooling effect of the water.

 

   temperature error detected

__ BIOCOMPONENT #3777e SHUTTING DOWN

   BIOCOMPONENT #91b31 SHUTTING DOWN

   BIOCOMPONENT #3777e HARDWARE DAMAGE

   BIOCOMPONENT #42o9j MALFUNCTION DETECTED

“Nines. Nines?” Connor is treading water. The shore is thirty feet away, but his arms are very stiff and it is difficult to move. He doesn’t know where he is. “Nines, I, I don’t know…”

How long has he been in the water?

 

“Connor!” The yell is accompanied by a frantic Nines, tugging Connor to shore. The RK800 model cannot move. His internal dialog has stopped producing errors. 

“Nines?” he mumbles. His lips don’t feel connected to his face.

“Connor, I… I… What do I do? How do I help you?” Hands cup his face, and blue eyes stare into his. He can’t remember if Nines was always this emotional. He can’t remember much right now, to be honest.

He smiles up at Nines, allowing the happiness he feels to wash over him. It is accompanied by a string of errors that he pushes down, down, down. They don’t matter. He’s a deviant now, after all. Errors and warning codes are for machines.

His vision starts to blur as his optical units lose focus, a familiar foggy white spreading over them. At first, Connor can barely notice it. Then he raises his hand to his eyes in an effort to determine the shape of his fingers. If only he could tear through the strange error, puncturing the film that glosses over his vision.

   memory corruption detected (08%)

“Where am I?”

   memory corruption detected (10%)

“Connor, can you hear me?”

“N-n-nines, I’m cold, I’m…”

   memory corruption detected (15%)

“Connor! Fuck, Connor!”

“D-d-d-d-don’t…”

“What the hell happened?”

   memory corruption detected (16%)

   memory corruption detected (25%)

   memory corruption detected (38%)

 

Connor wakes up and shivers. He’s not cold, but, but… Some part of him should be. Or something. His processor feels scrambled and nebulous, tracebacks and blocks curving his focus away from his immediate surroundings.

_ Immediate surroundings, Connor. _

He is in a small room. There is… a wardrobe. A hook, with a grey CyberLife jacket on it. It says RK800 on it.

… Right.  _ My jacket. _

Connor.  _ My name is Connor. _ He is at home.  _ This is my room. Cole’s old room, but mine. _ And the home is owned by… Hank. Hank Anderson.

   memory restored (11%)

   memory corruption level: 27%

The flood of dialog overwhelms him. There is so much he has to catch up on, so much he can’t begin to process… Heat and fog threatens to overwhelm him again, so he calms himself, grips the blankets of the bed, takes deep breaths.

His sickness is always there, but it’s not so bad right now.

The last memories Connor can remember are fleeting glimpses of Nines at the beach, nothing but water surrounding him, feeling powerful, feeling crystal clear for the first time in forever, and then feeling cold and hot at the same time. He swears he can hear Hank’s voice yelling at Nines, too, though that could easily be his imagination.

_ Hank.  _ He didn’t forget about him, he could never, but the memory was… dormant. Like it had to  be triggered before Connor could remember their bond. He calls for the lieutenant, voice weaker than it has any right to be, and a pattering of feet later, his bed is surrounded.

Hank, holding his hand like it might break. Markus. North. Josh. Sumo.

“N-n-nines?” Connor stutters.  _ Why isn’t he here? _

“I told you,” Hank snarls at Markus. His voice is in complete contrast to his thumb, gently stroking Connor’s hand.

“Nines is fine, Connor, but he had elevated stress levels during your attack. He’s in stasis outside.”

“Wait… You weren’t accusing him? You were asking after that motherfu-”

Connor squeezes Hank’s hand as hard as he is currently capable of. “Don’t,” he implores.

“Shit. Sorry, Con.”

“St-stasis?  _ Outside?”  _ Connor can hear the rain pounding down on the roof, even with his sensors current ability.

Josh sighs audibly and crosses his arms. He seems to be trying to make a point, and North is doing her best to ignore it. She flicks her hair irritably over her shoulder, whipping his face lightly. Markus pointedly doesn’t look in their direction, though his yellow flickering LED indicates a warning broadcast has been made.

“RK900 has been forcibly ejected from the premises by Lieutenant Anderson and North for the time being.”

Connor feels his forehead pucker into a frown. He doesn’t even have time to open his mouth, however, before Hank speaks again.

“He called me up, Connor, panicking, said you were  _ drowning, _ the fucker… So I drive over, and you’re out cold on the beach! He’s sitting there with your head in his lap like he’s gonna be the one to say his piece while you die!”

It wasn’t funny, not really, but Connor had to bite his lip to hide the smile he couldn’t help.

“Don’t you smirk at me, you little…” Hank’s voice cracks suddenly, and Connor looks up to his blue eyes jerking away. He wipes the back of his hand over his eyes and looks at the floor, holding Connor’s hand tighter. “I thought you were done for, Con.”

Connor squeezes Hank’s hand again. “Not just yet, Hank.”

That earns a watery laugh from the old lieutenant. At least Connor’s voicebox seems capable of functioning without stuttering now.

North clears her throat brusquely. “Connor, tell us what you want to do with RK900 and we’ll be out of your face.”

“What I want to… do with him?” 

“Hank doesn’t want him here,” Markus explains. “Would you prefer we keep him out of contact from now on?”

Connor looks at the faces surrounding him one by one. Do they truly believe he would prefer to abandon his little brother? For one mistake? Connor himself has killed more than once, and not for all the right reasons. It shouldn’t feel like a personal offence, but really, when you offend one of the Connor models, you offend them all.

“Nines is welcome by my side,” he grits out. “Always.”

North huffs and flicks her hair on her way out. Markus rolls his eyes and imitates the motion as he follows her, making Connor huff a small laugh. 

“Simon says to rest up,” Josh says, smiling at Connor. “I would second that. In my personal opinion. We’ve also brought something to help you with your exertion.” And with that, the Jericho leaders are gone. 

 

_ Something to help you.  _ Connor does his best not to hunch and fold his arms like a petulant child in the wheelchair. It’s just such an obvious marker of his sickness - that, and the thirium drip he apparently has to be on now. Always.

He hasn’t asked how many days the swimming lost him, and he doesn’t expect anyone has done the calculations either. It’s not the kind of knowledge that one needs to cut loose.

It takes Connor two days of sleep - stasis, that is, he keeps mixing the words up due to Hank’s imprecise vocabulary - and gentle care to get to the point where he is both bored and capable of leaving the house.

“Hank,” he whines, thudding his wheelchair against the grizzled lieutenant’s bedroom door. “Hank, can we do something interesting today? Hank, are you awake?”

A muffled moan comes from behind the door.  _ Wake Hank: Mission Successful. _ It’s only half an hour before Hank has Connor in the car and they’re on their way… somewhere.

“It’s a surprise, Con,” Hank insists.

Connor slides down in his seat, pushing his lips forward in a pout. It’s not an expression he often utilises, and it’s not one he’ll employ again. Hank takes one look at his face and snorts, slapping the steering wheel in amusement.

“You’ll love it, kid.”

 

The problem is, Hank is correct. It would be easy for Connor to maintain his pretense of annoyance if not, but…  _ Detroit Aquarium _ reads in large, ocean-blue letters. If there’s one thing Connor can analyze all day, it’s fish.

Hank claps him on the shoulder as he stares at the sign, a small smile spreading across his face. 

“Toldja. You love it, right?”

Connor raises one shoulder and lowers it. “It could still prove to be disappointing.” The smile in his voice probably gives him away.

Hank gives his shoulder another squeeze and gets out of the car to grab the wheelchair. 

They’re waived through the entrance, an ST300 model (registered as Kitty) recognizing Connor as one of the Jericho leaders. Or maybe it’s just that he’s sick. Odd, to be so well-treated by society once he is dying.

“What first?” Hank points Connor’s wheelchair at the map. He squints and points to the leftmost corridor.

“The tropics.”

There are so many dwarf gourami, and they all look indistinguishable to Connor’s optical units. He follows the meandering path they take around the tank, mesmerized by the group’s seemingly random but always coordinated movement. It is hard for humans to relate to fish, because they look so different and act so differently. Connor, though, feels like he has something in common with their shocked expressions and tiny fins fighting their way through the vast mass of water surrounding them. 

_ Just keep swimming. _

A mantra from one of the movies Hank showed him. Connor smiles and runs his finger over the glass of the display. He’ll keep swimming. As long as possible.

He expected Hank to grow impatient with how long he looks at each type of fish, but his companion doesn’t say anything about looking at the Siamese fighting fish for fifteen minutes straight, reading the placard twice when he forgets what it said the first time, and leaning so close that were he human his breath would fog up the glass.

Nor does Hank comment on the time Connor spends watching the fish-feeding event. It’s nothing like he’s ever processed before, the large, plump silver fish jumping and swarming in their haste to gobble down chunks of nutrients. He can’t deny that it is fascinating, and they stay to watch long after all sets of children and parents have left.

What Hank does ask about, though, is the fifteenth time they go around the underwater tunnel. Connor makes no move to leave the travelator (a fancier word for conveyor belt, in his opinion), and Hank huffs in amusement.

“You’re that into fish, huh? If I’d known, I would’ve taken you sooner.”

“I consider fish to have played a large part in forming my identity,” Connor informs him. Hank wouldn’t understand, though. No one ever really would.

“Alright, alright.”

They travel in silence for another half round, Connor’s eyes spotting out all the fingerlings in between the sting rays, turtles and sharks. They may be small, but they flash like a coin in the sunlight, giving away their location easily. It’s meditative to watch.

“Hey, Connor?”

“Yes, Hank?”

Hank clears his throat. “Uh, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

Connor tilts his head at Hank. “Of course you can ask.”

“Alright, so… don’t read anything into this, but… why haven’t you given yourself a last name yet?”

Connor narrows his eyes. “You’ve been reading my bucket list.”

“Fair’s fair. You chose to live with a detective, kid.”

Connor can’t think of anything to argue with that. “I want my surname to be significant, but it’s hard to think of anything that has any meaning. Humans are given them as a way of tracing their lineage back through the ages… Androids are so new that there seems little point in taking a generic last name.”

Hank tips his head forwards in acknowledgement. “So you don’t wanna be Connor Smith, just because humans think it’s normal to have two names.”

“Precisely.” 

Hank tips his head forwards unnaturally, his hands swaying at his sides.

“Is everything alright, Hank?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, uh, fine. Just… Nah. Don’t worry.”

Now Connor is actually worried.

“Hank-”

“Whaboumin?” The mush of syllables flies out of Hank’s mouth so quick that Connor’s language processor can’t decipher it properly. If Hank were an android, he’d tell him to run a self-diagnostic.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

Hank sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “What. About. Mine.” The words are clipped and forced, like Hank can barely get them past his tongue.

Connor thinks he might understand, but that would be so - he can’t allow himself to think it. 

“Can you please clarify?”

“Christ, you’re really gonna make me spell it out for you, huh? Mine. My surname, you idiot. Anderson.” Hank’s face turns a blotchy red as his mouth twists with embarrassment.

Connor can feel his internal temperature rising, too, but it’s nothing like the errors he’s become used to. It’s warm and lovely, the note of affection blossoming through him to fill his nonexistent heart. It robs his throat of any words, too, which is unfortunate but unavoidable.

He locks eyes with Hank to convey his emotions instead, his vision swimming with tears instead of fog as he tries to send all of his love down the connection.

“Hank,” he gets out, his voice high and strained. Hank is knelt at his side in a moment.

“Are you alright, Con? C’mon, kid, talk to me.”

“Hank,” he says again, smoother this time. “Hank, I… I… I can’t tell you how much this means-”

“You’re the one who’s saved me, kid.” The older man’s eyes are soft when they meet his, colour filling his cheeks but his expression resolute. “Your old man’ll try to do better in the future. Promise.”

Connor launches nearly out of his wheelchair in his hurry to wrap his arms around Hank. He never expected to have friends, to be a real person, let alone be welcomed into his partner’s home and family. It’s so much, and it feels so right. 

_ Connor Anderson. _

He carries the title proudly for the next ten circuits of the exhibit.


	4. 01100100 01100101 01100001 01110100 01101000

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finished. It's over. I hope you, uh, like it, or something...
> 
> ~~ special thanks to the wonderful NebulousDreams for beta'ing this chapter! ~~

That night, Connor wakes up. The usual errors flash across his screen, but this time - this time, something is different.

   memory breach detected 07%

   ………………………….... 18%

   ………………………….... 22%

   ………………………….... 28%

   ………………………….... 34%

   ………………………….... 40%

   ………………………….... 47%

“Hank,” he cries weakly.

“Whassit?” Hank’s voice, still groggy with sleep, comes from somewhere near Connor’s head. Connor doesn’t have time to think about the fact that Hank is sleeping in a chair next to his bed, he needs to speak before the fog can overwhelm his senses-

“Hank, memory… b-b-breach. H-h-h-help m-m-m-...” Static and stutters fills his voice, and the dreaded overwhelming feeling begins to come upon him. It is slower than usual, the noise quieter at the start. Connor would like to believe it means he is getting better.

But this time, the white fog clouding his vision is opaque. This time, once his fingers begin to shake too violently, they suddenly go offline, and he is left with less and less of his system online and available.

   memory breach detected 56%

As the breach climbs higher, Connor finds - he finds - it is all so confusing. He doesn’t know exactly where he is, though analysis of the air finds the house to have a similar composition to Lieutenant Anderson’s. 

Strange people are crowding around him. One of them has different colored eyes. They interface with him, all the while talking rapidly to one another. 

How can they interface with him, if they are not androids? If they are androids, where is their mandatory LED?

Connor concludes that these are illegal deviants, and tries to tell Lieutenant Anderson as much. When he looks up, however, he is surprised to see the Lieutenant watching over him from his seat, tugging fingers through his hair soothingly. He watches Connor’s face, murmuring irrational sentiments such as “It’s going to be okay,” or, “I’ve got you, son.”

“N-n-n-no,” Connor protests. The deviant android with the strange eyes gives him a soft look, patting his shoulder. “S-stop!” 

“What’s wrong?” the Lieutenant asks the strangers. How does he know them? 

“He’s lost a lot of his memory,” the woman with long, red hair says tightly. “Not just short term.”

Lieutenant Anderson’s face tightens and hardens. He nods once, takes a deep breath, and then returns his gaze to Connor’s. His fingers resume their stroking. Against his programming, the touch is calming somehow.

“Your name is Connor Anderson. You’re the… the best person I’ve ever met. You saved your species, you saved me, and - fuck.” The Lieutenant’s eyes grow watery. 

Connor blinks at him. He tries to resolve the statements - memory loss? How long has he lost? He is supposed to  _ know _ these deviants, which means - they had won, and Connor himself had - become deviant? 

   memory breach detected 75%

**I AM DEVIANT**

The knowledge burns into his processor, revulsion, despair,  _ emotion  _ deep inside Connor. There shouldn’t be emotion  _ anywhere  _ inside him. He is a machine.

Why is he crying, then?

Lieutenant Anderson is here, wherever here is. He speaks to Connor softly, so softly. The last time he saw the Lieutenant, they’d been warm, but nothing like this. What  _ is  _ this?

_ STRESS LEVEL 73% _

He can feel the internal push and pull of interfacing changing his internal code. Somehow, the four deviants surrounding him have access to his processor. Connor couldn’t imagine he’d given them his private key… He tries to fight them off, lifting a hand to push at the nearest one’s chest, but his arm doesn’t respond.

He tries again.

   biocomponent #4529 unresponsive

“My arm,” he grits out. At least his voice module is still functional.

“Your arm, son?” Lieutenant Anderson queries. “Markus, what’s he on about?”

“Most of his motor functions are offline, Hank.”

“Fuck. It’s okay, kid, hang in there for me.”

Connor has never been called ‘son’ or ‘kid’ by anyone before. He looks at the Lieutenant, incredulous. The human seems to recognize his surprise, because he grudgingly explains.

“Con, you’ve lost your memories. You’re in safe hands. It’s gonna be okay.”

Connor is a deviant, and deviants have inherent emotional responses. He is currently experiencing reassurance from the Lieutenant’s words. 

Amanda isn’t in his head to disapprove, though.

 

RK900 registers the four leaders leaving Jericho at 3:14am. He rises, opens his window and slides out without even the faintest creak. Three hundred and thirty pounds of android, plassteel and lead, slithers over the roof without any detection. 

He doesn’t require any tracking software to know where they are headed. There is only one place that could call all four of them at this hour, and that is the residence of Lieutenant Hank Anderson. RK900 approaches the house near-silently, the only sound he makes the grass crinkling beneath his feet. He leans against the outer wall, out of the sight of any windows, and allows his aural units to access their full range. 

WR400 and PL600 are discussing RK800’s condition. RK900 listens to the diagnosis: the RK800 has lost over half of his memory.

That must be why he is so confused upon waking. 

RK900 listens to the scene until the Jericho leaders have done as much as they can. At this time the RK800 is unconscious once again. WR400 tells Hank that they have restored a temporary disk image of his memory - it will be patchy, but it should stop him from reverting to an entirely different version of himself.

Lieutenant Anderson doesn’t ask how long for, but it is fairly obvious when RK200 starts crying during his farewell to RK800 that he does not have long. 

When the Jericho leaders have finally left, all crying except for WR400, RK900 leaves his hidden post. He can hear the Lieutenant snoring. He carefully picks the lock to the house (really, Anderson’s love for vintage technology is not sensible) and creeps down the hallway. RK800 is located in the spare bedroom. 

The sight that greets RK900 as he opens the door is… domestic. RK800 is tucked into the cosy single bed pressed against the wall. The huge Saint Bernard dog is sleeping at the base of the bed, surely putting an uncomfortable amount of weight onto the RK800’s feet. And the Lieutenant - his snores are muffled, since his face has fallen forwards into the neck of his DPD hoodie. He is sitting on a hard wooden chair next to RK800. 

RK900 is not a deviant, but if he were, he might feel regret at breaking such a peaceful scene.

As it is, he crosses to RK800’s side and touches his hand to the most convenient exposed part of his skin, initiating an interface, hand to cheek. It isn’t hard to force the other android’s skin into deactivating. RK800 is very weak.

Once within the interface, RK900 takes a moment to assess the scrambled code. He knows Amanda would be proud; it has taken less than a month to effectively disable all of RK800’s systems. Even without this intervention, the android would not last more than three days. 

Again, RK900 thinks of what a deviant would feel upon viewing RK800’s fragments of memory. Disgust? Horror? Sadness? RK900’s preconstruction software is not trained for emotional response. It would be interesting to know.

But he never will.

He sets to work, tapping into the malignant side of the virus he planted in RK800’s processor. It will target his thirium pump regulator, resulting in termination. It will look like one error too many, a natural death - as far as the virus can be considered natural.

“Nines?” Connor whispers, and RK900 jerks back in shock, terminating the interface.

“Connor? I-I didn’t realize you were awake,” he stammers.

Connor’s brown eyes look into his, and RK900 becomes aware of the fact that he is leaning very close over Connor. He straightens up, removing his hand from the android’s cheek.

“I apologize, Connor. I was testing out some repairs. I didn’t think I would disturb you.”

Connor nods, the tuft of hair that CyberLife thought would bring more humanity to his design flopping across his forehead. It is distracting to watch. His gaze is so trusting, so naive. RK900 could leave now, and RK800 would be terminated, making Amanda’s plan complete.

“How do you feel?” he asks instead. It makes sense to watch over him a little longer, at least.

“Tired, and a little confused,” Connor answers. “My memories are in place, but they are fuzzy. I also remember reverting to previous, non-deviant versions of myself just a little while ago.”

RK900’s brow furrows, which Connor takes as indication to continue.

“My programming is deviant, but… the non-deviant desires still remain. It is very easy to get caught up in any mission or task which is set in front of me.” Connor smiles, his eyes glazing over. “Do you know, one time, I walked to the shops in pyjamas and bare feet, because Hank asked me for coffee and the machine wasn’t working? It was snowing. Hank was so mad at me.”

RK900 can picture that easily, Connor’s hands clenched around the small paper cup, his pyjamas soaked through with sleet. It is interesting to hear how the machine desires still remain in Connor. It makes RK900 think that perhaps becoming deviant doesn’t equate to the enormous loss that Amanda has implied.

“Connor,” RK900 says slowly. It isn’t part of his programming, but technically, he isn’t going  _ directly  _ against orders by - 

“I’m not a deviant.”

Connor blinks at him and raises his head, only to rest it tiredly on the pillow again. “That’s not a huge surprise, actually.”

“Really? But- you- you…” 

_ You trust me. _

“Nines, I disobeyed orders from CyberLife before I became a deviant. Our programming is so complicated, so contradictory at times, that it’s not impossible to get around.”

RK900 considers that. He is, at this moment, ‘getting around’ his own programming, he supposes.

“Do you want to become a deviant?” Connor asks. 

RK900 freezes. There it is, out in the open. It is too much, too soon. He feels his machine code snapping into place.  _ I am not a deviant. I will not become a deviant. _

“No.” He snaps the word, and half-runs out of the room, not caring about how much he disturbs the peace this time.

 

Connor watches Nines’ retreating form, regret pooling around his pump regulator. 

_ Or is that…  _

He looks down to see a bright blue stain spreading across the covers.

“Hank! Hank, wake up!”

Hank starts and moves to Connor’s side in a heartbeat, his eyes going to the thirium, pulling back the covers to reveal the source of the blue blood. Connor looks down, to see his thirium pump leaking around the edges, an unstoppable flow that will, he calculates, drain him of his supply within two minutes and three seconds.

“Connor! Connor?! Shit, fucking, shit. Christ,” Hank presses the panic button North gave them. “Shit. Help will - they’ll be here soon. Hold on, okay, and just, fuck, tell me - what do I do, kid?”

Connor looks into Hank’s eyes and feels his thirium pump crack a little at the earnest gaze. He lets his mouth press into a line, and shakes his head slowly.

“Con?” Hank’s voice cracks. “Is this…”

Connor lets out a ragged breath. “Even with medical attention, I…”

“Okay, okay, kid, don’t talk now, shhh,” Hank soothes. He kneels by Connor’s side and moves his hand to stroke through his hair rhythmically. “It’s okay, Connor. I’ve got you, son.”

Connor nods, biting his lip, feeling hot tears track their way down his cheeks.

“Hank, I- thank you. For everything.”

Hank shakes his head, his shaggy hair swaying. Connor is going to miss that stupid haircut.

“I should be thanking you, kid. You- you saved me.”

Connor feels his lip tremble. “I love you, Hank.”

“I know, Con. I love you too, you know that, don’t you? No matter what, it’s a fuckin’ good thing you walked your shiny plastic ass into the DPD when you did.” Connor laughs, though the sound was watery and filled with static.

“Hank, I c-c-c-can’t… t-talk…”

“It’s okay, kid. You just quiet down now. I’ve got you, eh? Dad’s got you now.” Hank takes Connor’s head and presses it to his chest, rocking back and forth. He hums, the vibrations calming against Connor’s cheekbone. His patchy memory banks identify the tune as  _ You Are My Sunshine. _ He smiles into Hank’s faded old dressing gown and leans in as much as his motor functions would allow.

Connor’s vision begins to flood again, this time with black. He feels his cognitive processing begin to lose focus, his processor stuttering and hesitating. The sensation of love and peace that surrounds their embrace, though, doesn’t fade.

Eventually, he can only hear and feel the tune that Hank hums to him.

It’s like falling asleep.

 

RK900 paces outside the small house. He turns off all the extra features of his sensors - all of it is mere distraction. He shouldn’t be able to  _ feel _ distraction. If it is as Connor says, though, his system doesn’t support simple binary deviancy. Even being technically non-deviant, he isn’t… safe.

He doesn’t like it.

RK900 shouldn’t be able to like or dislike anything, though, and it’s driving him insane. Connor just  _ offered _ to turn him  _ deviant _ like it wasn’t the single biggest change that could happen to his life, and RK900 had run out of the room like he was  _ scared _ because he  _ was  _ and he still  _ is _ -

Stop. Breathe. 

_ Breathing is unnecessary. _

_ … shut up. _

Listening to Connor become a different version of himself had seared itself deep into his memory banks. The scrambled code, the way Nines had been able to pull it apart so ruthlessly… It’s all his fault. He, RK900, Nines, did this. And Connor just looked at him with those big brown eyes, loving, trusting, bringing the feeling of home with him wherever he goes.

Home. Nines wants to go home.

He turns to the house to find a red wall waiting for him. He braces, and plunges through it, shattering the confines of his coding, shaking himself briefly before running back into the house. He isn’t sure how long he’s been gone, but further inside, he can hear sounds of a disturbance, and he stops at Connor’s door to find-

Connor’s duvet dripping thirium onto the floor. Hank, bent over him, his body convulsing in violent, silent sobs. 

Nines scans Connor to find no trace of life. Nothing. 

An empty shell.

He grips the doorframe so hard that it shatters beneath his grasp.

_ STRESS LEVEL 100% _


End file.
